After the mind-rending experience that was interacting with the Original Weavers, and subsequently getting a flashback when seeing a tiny house spider in the corner of my room, I took a moment–a long moment–to think things over. It made sense that they were able to contact me; my energy had been spent fighting the New Weavers (which is what I’ll be calling Alberich’s puppets to provide distinction). I had put so much focus on the offense, I forgot to put up my mental barriers again. Of course, I get the feeling that those things could have entered my mind at any time they wanted.
After taking some time to reconstruct and reinforce the barriers around my mind, I decided to use my abilities to search for any New Weavers who might be in the motel. It was a risky move, but I had to be sure that I was alone. To my relief, there weren’t any. To get a more precise read on the locations of any New Weavers, I looked in the book (for anyone who doesn’t remember, this book lists the names and locations of anybody with the abilities of an Indigo). They were scattered all over the city, going from place to place. They knew I had the book, so I guess they were hoping to confuse me and get me by surprise.
Something else hit me, something that had never occurred to me until then. As I looked at one of the names of the Indigos Alberich had Stitched, I vaguely recalled seeing the name on a “Missing” poster. On a hunch, I checked other names online. Sure enough, in numerous obituaries and other locations, all of them were either reported as missing or dead. So that was how he was able to amass so many “followers”; he faked their deaths or disappearances and Stitched them. How had he avoided attention from law enforcement and the media? My best guess is that he hypnotized any witnesses and erased the memory of anyone who saw their faces, maybe had the bodies undergo plastic surgery or something like that. Either way, he caused all of them to disappear from the public eye and took away their minds.
There was one that was standing still, however, and it was standing in a place that caused goosebumps to pop up all over my body.
Grandad’s grave.
The psychic energy emitted from this New Weaver was stronger than the others. It was Alberich; it had to be. But what was he doing? Trying to find something else Grandad left behind? The only relief I had was that he and the rest of the Weavers avoided the house my grandmother still lived in. Still, I felt my fear burn into a searing rage. Who did this prick think he was? He took the group my Grandad made and changed it into a cult, caused my aunt’s death, twisted my grandmother’s mind and forced Grandad to kill her, and now was trying to come after me to get this book.
What I did next was a stupid decision, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Whatever he was doing at the graveyard, I was going to stop him. So I checked out of the motel, got in my car, and sped towards the cemetery. Several pairs of glowing blue eyes tracked my car, but I didn’t care. I’ve already killed several; I’d kill more if I need to, and I’d certainly kill Alberich. Murder is wrong, I know, but I didn’t give a damn. This fucker lost any opportunity for mercy after what he’s done to my family and countless others. I’m not a superhero, after all; I’m just a traumatized, pissed-off psychic who’s been listening to people’s thoughts his whole life, got attacked by the confused ghost of his grandma, and is being hounded by worshippers of giant, eldritch spiders.
I had some rage to vent.
Arriving at the dark cemetery, I got out of the car. I knew this could be a trap, but if there was even the slightest chance to get my hands on Alberich, I’d take it. Sure enough, there was a figure standing beside Grandad’s grave, the whole thing having been dug up and the coffin lying open with the body inside having decayed long ago.
“Alberich, you bastard!” I shouted, getting ready to either block any psychic attacks from him.
“I knew this would get your attention,” he said in a smooth yet almost serpentine voice. Turning around calmly, I was met with a face simultaneously familiar and foreign to me, even in the dark. I froze in my tracks, anger forgotten and replaced by numbing shock and confusion. The lips were curved into a condescending, arrogant smirk, his attire was a lot more formal than he ever would have liked, and the eyes were, of course, blue and shining, but there was no mistaking it.
I struggled to find my voice, staggering back slightly, then eventually stammered:
“G-Grandad?”
He chuckled lightly and shook his head. “No, not exactly, ‘Little Cub.’”
Hearing his old nickname for me leaving the lips of this man slammed into me like a ton of bricks.
“How did–”
“I’m guessing you didn’t read the part in the book about ‘Excision’, did you?” I remained silent. “Didn’t think so. See, sweet Eleanor probably told you I was Jeremy’s old pal, apprentice, whatever. All of that was technically true. What she didn’t remember, however, was that your Grandad made me. He had certain emotions he thought would undermine his leadership of the Weavers. Anger, fear, pride, ambition, perfectionism–he took all of those and others and ‘Excised’ them from his mind, then used them to make me, but left enough in himself to still act like a regular human being. See, kid, Indigos are a hell of a lot more than psychics, spoon-benders, etc. We’ve got gifts from beings older than time itself. Rearranging some molecules here and there to make a perfect copy of yourself isn’t out of the realm of possibility if you’re strong enough and willing to undergo pain like nobody’s ever imagined. He was. And so here I am.”
My legs buckled and I fell to my knees, shock enveloping me. Sighing, he patted me on the shoulder. “Lot to take in, isn’t it? Can’t blame you; not every day you meet the exact copy of your dead grandpa, but chin up, son. You and me, we’re going to shake things up.”
“‘We?’” I croaked out.
“Yeah. Your grandad’s original idea to ‘weave’ people’s minds together was what drove me, but he was afraid of actually going through with it. He was too afraid of getting in contact with the Original Weavers. That was why he Excised me, leaving me with only a rudimentary idea of how to do it. But now, you have the book. Now we can finish what Jeremy never had the courage to do. Whaddya say, son?”
I just knelt there, numb with shock. He was right. This was too much to take in at once. When I finally composed myself, I stood up, then looked at Alberich, who held his hand out, as if he genuinely expected me to take it.
“Fuck you,” I growled, clenching my fists as rocks around me began rising into the air.
He blinked in surprise. “What?”
“You absorb innocent people’s minds into yours, come after me, try to do the same, dig up my Grandad’s grave, and all of that after what you’ve stolen from my family, and you think I’m going to join you, after everything you’ve put me and my family through?!” I hurled the rocks at him, intent on reenacting the Biblical Stephen’s death on this motherfucker, only for them to remain suspended in mid-air.
Alberich sighed, then clicked his tongue. “So disappointing. Seems you take up after your Grandad more than I thought: a bleeding heart, through and through. Oh well. Guess I’ll have to do this the hard way.” He placed a hand on my forehead, and instantly the rocks fell. I felt the sensation I felt when touching the book, but this was different. He was replacing my broken memories with different ones. He was trying to make my mind whole again, whole enough to help with whatever insidious plan he had concocted to bring the Original Weavers into the world. No, not just that. He was trying to absorb the book as well. Everything I’d read, all of the names listed, everything—he wanted it all.
Suddenly my car ploughed through the graveyard, to both mine and Alberich’s shock. It struck him, then sent him into the hole he dug up. I heard a voice in my mind saying, Get in, now. The door swung open, and already I could see Alberich starting to try climbing out. I wasted no time, getting into my driver’s seat and peeling out of there. As I began driving, the voice explained that it was Carlos, my Grandad’s lawyer for those who don’t remember. He said he’d been keeping an eye on me since I left my Grandad’s house. According to him, he wanted to make sure none of Alberich’s puppets got to me, and once he realized that I was being lured to my Grandad’s gravesite, he tried to warn me, but the presence of the New Weavers was blocking him. He gave me directions on where to go as I sped out of town. Eventually, I reached a small rest stop, and he told me to stay there until he said otherwise. So I’ve been here, typing this out on my phone
This whole experience really has me on edge. I hardly know what to believe anymore. I know one thing, though: when he began trying to Stitch me, I heard that familiar mantra: Let. Us. Be. One. He’s their prophet and puppet, with the difference between him and his own being that he has enough free will to want to serve them, whereas his slaves had it taken from them. Fucking hell, I’m just exhausted. Sometimes I wish I never had these powers. They’ve brought me nothing but trauma. Because of them, my grandmother attacked me, my grandfather’s old cult attacked me, I’m questioning everything I’ve ever known about the man, and to top it all off, I’m being tormented by giant psychic spiders who want to feast on human psychic energy or something.
Okay, I just got notified by Carlos. Time for me to go now. When I’m in a safe spot, I’ll update you guys. Wish me luck.